The Life I'm Running From

44\ What Matters To Me

I rested my fingers on the cool glass of the window pane, watching cars drive past on the highway below. People dodged around buses, waving signs and shaking tin cans. The pizza place across the street advertised a new deal. I almost imagined I could smell the pizza from up here, fresh out of the oven. My fingers stroked the glass, leaving finger print smudges. Glass clinked in the kitchen and I heard Aunt May mumble something.

Peter wasn't home yet. Here I was, waiting for the boy who wouldn't get out of my thoughts even after he insulted me, and he was an hour late.

I stepped away from the window and looked around at the living room. Star Wars DVDs still cluttered the coffee table, and I could see his Physics textbook lying open on the floor. I could still imagine us studying here, only months ago, when I didn't know he was Spider-Man and he didn't know I was a demigod. Back when the most complicated thing about our relationship was what we felt when we got too close to each other.

I wasn't here to apologize. He was the one that blew up at me. I was here to tell him about Ravenyx, so he could pass it along to the Avengers. That's it.

The room was paralyzed in motion, and I walked to the couch to break the oppressive stillness. My fingers, fidgety as always, grasped the fabric backing of the couch. It was soft and rough under my fingertips. Still antsy, I studied the coffee table, and then the end table. And just like one cold December afternoon, my eyes caught on a photograph.

It was a simple picture, of a young Peter and his aunt and uncle. And yet the simplicity had led to me crying and bonding with Peter over our lost parental figures. Today I didn't feel tears, only the ghost of a feeling that I could see in the kid in the picture. He didn't know that one day he would be an international superhero, and that one day the world might dare to hate him.

The front door opened. I ripped my gaze from the photograph to see Peter. His backpack was loosely over one shoulder and hair more dishevelled than I had ever seen it. My fingers dug into the couch, but his eyes were already on me. Wordlessly, he dropped his backpack and walked towards me. He stopped on the other end of the couch, leaving a few feet between us. I'm sure he had questions, such as why I had beaten him home from school.

"Why are you here?" His words weren't harsh, but there was agitation—more than I had expected.

I stared at him, biting my teeth down a bit too hard. I hated what he had said so much—but I wanted this whole fight to be over. "I know where Ravenyx will be next. And why she's doing what she's doing."

Peter opened his mouth, and then closed it. He nodded, looking momentarily disoriented. "Right. Cool. Is that... is that what you came here to say?"

"Yes." I let my shoulders relax and my gaze dropped to the couch. Staring at him made it hard to hate him.

"Well I have something to say too." He tucked his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. "And I went to your apartment to say it. I waited for a half an hour, but I guess you were here the whole time."

I looked up, and his face flushed red. But nevertheless, he looked me straight in the eye. "I'm a jerk. And I'm really sorry. I should've never said what I said. I don't think you're a liar, at all. Could you... could you ever forgive me?"

Crossing my arms, I turned away from him to lean against the couch. I could see him in the corner of my eye, watching me with bated breath. Did I forgive him? "Why didn't you let me explain? And why did you get so mad about me dating Harley?"

He rested his hand on the back of the couch, just close enough to mine that our pinky fingers overlapped. I could tell he didn't want to touch me more than that, not when I was angry at him.